"Well, to-morrow evening we would go together to see the plays at Beaucaire, the two of us, arm in arm, on the meadow we would go and see the gypsies who tell fortunes; we would stroll round to all the booths, and I would buy you a beautiful ring."
"Of glass?" asks Anglore.
"No, of gold. And at the end of the fair I would bring you back as my wife at Saint Maurice."
But Anglore laughs and puts him off, and finally tells him that he has been forestalled by one who would drown him in the depths of the Rhone if he caught him fishing in his "lone."[30]
So poor Jean Roche relapses into dismal silence. Presently the Prince of Orange, radiant, and carrying a branch of the flower of the Rhone, issues from his tent on the barge where he has been sleeping, humming, still half asleep, the Venetian song of the three lively ladies—
"Sur mon bateau qui file
Viens, je t'enlève au frais:
Car, prince de Hollande,
Je n'ai peur de personne."
And Anglore suddenly turns very pale and nearly faints.